David Sparenberg
A CHILD OF DARFUR
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You explain it, in the eyes of a child, how children are born into this
slaughterhouse world and here is hunger and war, here is neglect and pain,
thirst and famine, hatred, crime and abandonment. But a child is just a
child, a miracle happening in a season of play. But pain is bigger than
children. Fear is bigger. Wounds in the heart where blood paints heart
shapes; mind blown skulls. Death.
You explain that if a child can understand the inhuman, then I can understand
how madness is a mother of children who breastfeeds nations and murder murder
is a father's breath, casting shadows of phantoms...being men in armed
uniforms...onto the hiding places, the secret treasures, the dream incubations,
of God.
Child Faces.
But if a child can explain your, our, the adult explanation back to me, to us
and still be a child, in the trance-dance of innocence, and look back at life
with children's eyes, wide with wonder; images of a dove taking flight out of
a palmed clod of clay or angel walking dream waters, being a fisher of
salvation for drowning souls...for heavy malice is corruption, dry, the husk,
the waste, the crown of thorns stabbing the heart and war the fires of hell;
then I too will feel no pain, no pain or shame, outrage or despair, no, no,
no, no agony or down in my bowels where conscience shudders gut wrenching
convulsions of anguish and disgust (rebellion is the first man, is body
first). But I will conform too, compliantly shut up, be withered as well,
normal and withdraw silent as stone when storms break over this earth of
homelessness. Rags of living refuse; refuge. Refugees. O loaves! O fishes!
How vast the multitudes in the lands of possession where demons, devils,
shape-shift into us! How overwhelming, brethren!
People, there is terror. There is terror and terrorism. There are armies;
there are terrorists: legions, armies of terrorists. There is horror. There
are ghouls. There are monsters, psychotics, psychopaths, politicians,
profiteers. War. And there is Death. Death unbound. DEATH in all caps.
Death and children. Death as direction, death at horizons. But a child
a child would slip away, would sail off to find the Spirit House of God,
where loved ones lay dreaming, where love is collectively asleep. O Gautama!
O Lord Jesus! New baby Moses in a basket of trust on this plagued Nile of
tears and trouble. Sorrows, brethren, sorrows! Woe! Now who's gonna save us?
Who's gonna save us now, who slay the flesh of tomorrow? Blood. Ashes.
Draught. Howling...Dust.
Darkness, brethren. Witness, brethren. Portents: Dark descending. Dread of
dark. Savage sun setting, furious, over all the earth at one and the same
hour. One and the same.
Come near. Prophesy. Explain infanticide, explain state sponsored crime.
Marauding, wild dogs of Golgotha, the dog-men who chew bones of life, sacred
gone mad, and the venomous swarm of our insects of war. But you, you and I,
verify soullessness. Explain dare, tell it, clarify. Turn genocide into a
shape that will not haunt for generations. What can, what does, it mean to
say, as we stand apart, like statues of narcissism in death's garden of guilt,
mute and surrounded by networks of mass graves? To say Mass. To mouth words.
Liturgy: Child. Elliot's Hollow Men. Nietzsche's Last Man. Go! Tell the
betrayed of Africa: "The hyenas are praying. The scavengers of slaughter are
the gods of war."
Child of Darfur.
18-19 August 2007

Matthew M. Wylie
Sojourn Nino's and The Klavier
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The object of the children's song was how the piano surrounded them,
When they were restless and mercurial,
Waiting for redolent strangers to catch their backward gaze,
As each one agelessly cast eyes from the neck
Of our mothers and fathers.
Behind one, with a cyclopean satchel tied to her waist;
And mother, holding onto fresh, seasoned plums
the size of storied moons from long ago,
An onlooker connects.
Without the song, or the remembrance of the sonatas,
the children would not have their first attempt at Memory,
and instead, would suffer the long, poetically neutral nights
of nymphs and river gods;
the tiger and leviathan.
On Entering
~~~~~~~~~~~
I.
Entering has always remained
The easier of the two.
When crescent odes are sang
To chimera moons; forged
with a symmetry only the most
opaque and puerile forest
can accurately reflect.
Door -
Lace
Novel
Mouth
Inside
In-between
Zoo
Museum
Drunkenness
Labyrinth
Virgin
Harlot
Carriage
Immortality -
II.
The rotunda in Spain,
Where the panacea and soporific
Caused so much awe and panic.
(remember the minotaur?)
The cathedral temples
Where ideas of martyrdom
First . . .
The cinema house,
Where you caught yourself
in between the word and the light.
(Apollonian acts and a Baroque Dionysus)
An olive grove
Next to where
You were born and learned
To sing "Laila Laila."
The billet near the Dead Sea,
Where you could no longer distinguish
Between "garden," "library,"
"siesta," "blood."
Along the castle valley next to your bed,
Where junipers and peonies raise their walls
To obstruct all ghosts and madmen
From martyrdom.
A Ritual
~~~~~~~~
Already far from the canopy pride
you have ventured too far, perhaps.
Out of the reach of
monks, lovers, and unhappy families,
I wonder if you will be whole when you return?
Or why, I have not heard you dance like the shadows
that sing "Porqu‚ no me oye usted?"
As through templates of dried stone,
when you reach out for both knife and hand,
and finding them cut to the bone, offering
no penitent, complaisant gesture -
Your song-less utterance is lost.
I know you will acquire a taste for killing,
as I have of steel and hot-blooded apprehension.
such as when water meets the maple sickle
during harvest and dream.
Galatea
~~~~~~~
Along what waters and straight away roads
were you waiting to be born?
Right along the apple blossoms that speak more of peaches
than apples .
Yet, if one were to cut away at you,
They'd find two cores,
and one chorus:
a song as sweet as the salt night,
and a hand out of synch with its place
underneath the only pillow.
You are almost unmentionable.
En Relojes
~~~~~~~~~~
with every winged tip of saffron blue that
the rooftops have to offer,
you flutter,
like the lion,
like some turquoise resemblance of things past,
an apparition only closely resembling the wall clock.
If ever I find time to remind you
of how you dance,
make sure that you (or I) are incognito;
otherwise, I will not have the presence to help you.
Rehan Qayoom
Post-dinner Item
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Already we counted ourselves amongst the prisoners of your locks
But today we want to kiss yours hands as well
For today you've adorned the dinner-table
With such a delightful variety of delicacies
That we are all perplexed
From where to start
It's amazing that in spire of being occupied in your
Extremely demanding social duties
You remained kitchen-bound for so long
All this much!
Surrounded by foolish cooks and unruly servants
And such appetising food
Seems a miracle to us
On top of which is the astounding fact
That you must be so tired
Yet you're so jocund
Lady so-and-so's feast was nothing in comparison with this
Thanks
Thank You so much for all this gratitude
Now, what shall I present to you
Tea, coffee or the poet?
SOLILOQUY
~~~~~~~~~
The people around me
Seem to speak
A totally different language
That Wavelength
Whereby I was connected to them
Has entered another dimension
Either my grammar has become obsolete
Or their definitions have changed
Their glossaries do not contain
The meanings of the paths
Upon which my words take me
I am dumb to the sanctity of words and can only hold converse
With the solitude of walls or with my own shadow
I am terrified of the moment
When I will entirely dissolve and disappear into myself
Having forgotten that Frequency
Upon which I used to talk (to myself)
Am left repeating to myself
"May Day, May Day"
Tomato Ketchup
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In our country
A woman who writes poetry is considered a curiosity
Every man fancies himself as the addressed
And since in actuality it is not so
So he becomes her enemy!
As such Sara Shagufta
Made few enemies
And because she did not believe
In offering explanations
She had already become the sister in-law of them all
Before she became a writer's wife
Every Tom, Dick and Harry claimed
That she had slept with him
From dawn to dusk
Every unemployed hack-writer in the city
Buzzed around her
Even those
Who had jobs to go to
Would leave their tatty files and worn-out wives
And let her play in their hands
(Oblivious of electricity bills, children's school fees and the wife's medicine
For these were concerns
Of the lesser mortals)
All day long
All evening
'So late into the night'
Incensed talk would ensue on literature and philosophy
When hunger struck
They'd all chip in and order
Bread and boiled pulse from the hotel round the corner
Great dignitaries would then be offered tea
At her expense
They told her she was the Amrita Pritam of Pakistan
Stupid gullible girl
She fell for it
Perhaps also because
Those responsible for her bread and butter
Always served her Kafka for tea
With Neruda biscuits
She survived
Their drooling compliments
But how long for
One day or another she would've had to escape this panther prowl
Sarah went one step further and left the jungle itself!
She had been nibbled away alive by
The flattering connoisseurs of art
In their symposiums
They still dribble at her name
Except that they can no longer taste her
For in death they have relegated her
To the status of Tomato Ketchup!
Joseph Veronneau
Estranged
~~~~~~~~~
Listening to the crickets outside
your sandals sit down the hallway.
I recall your barefoot imprints
left to indentation on the carpet.
I do not call and ask you
what is happening.
I've seen the distracted gaze
and played it myself,
the end lays there.
"One of these days"
becomes a common theme to cling to
now that you're on a separate coast
where the mosquitoes still bite
but do not have to face the cold
like they do here,
the perseverance of constant presence
resounds elegiac.
Blind Consent
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That night Janet's dog caught that cat,
tore it up badly.
Its throat was slit;
claws flinching in and out,
unable to cry out.
The dog took the cat between its jaws,
drug it down the road half-running.
The cat hung, looking straight ahead,
destiny unknown to a certain extent.
The gravel passed by
and the streaks of the road
were faint bolts of lightening,
ripples in the sky
flew by in peripheral horizon.
The tunnel seemed long,
weightless mammal flying through
the twisted breeze.
To Gain Back a Piece of What Was Lost
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was nice to see your face again
the other night in my dream
when you showed up
you had the last book I ever leant you
in your clenched possession.
Still reluctant to give it back,
I reached down and plucked it from your curled fingers,
veins protruding from the knuckles.
The rain slid past us
as we caught gaze once again
for the last time,
mud loosened from the hardened cover
and our voices spoke in tones
inaudible to anyone with a window ajar.
Bishnupada Ray
Taj Mahal
~~~~~~~~~
Memory and desire, immortal
flame of the passionate heart
bound in a unity from earth to heaven
and beyond, the pathway of salvation.
Travelling through the Arab sand
they brought horses and camels
the Bedouin tunes, rootless passion
sailing with the Mediterranean
love wind, they brought marbles
the cool warmth of the olive health.
The design they found in flicker
in the dark water of Jamuna
reflected in the pious conjunction
of history, myth and will to live.
The minarets they kept reserved
for the muezzin to call the devotees
to a prayer of a different kind
with love the prophet bending over
like the full moon in the background.
Global Warming
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
slum dwelling, lazy hot afternoon
the sun directly falling on the face
the tin roof is red hot, power-cut
the relentless sun, dry as dust
no umbrella cloud, dehydration
birds have gathered around a tap
the lemon-juice shop is empty, the vendor
has gone home for afternoon rest
one or two people are seen loitering
purposeless, like the slow time
record temperature, global warming
women are seen doing the chores
men are waiting for the sun to abate
children are playing as usual
laughing, hiding or chasing the sun.
Hostage
~~~~~~~
Masked men frisk me
kick my ass if I go slow
to follow their diktats, gun-totting
demeanour, guns pointed at my brain
the prized catch they fear to lose
to the day, to the light
and to the world they avenge
the avenging angels from hell
in one hand life, in another, death
making me feel for the light of life
some things are indispensable
life is always indispensable.
Gesture
~~~~~~~
The worlds we share
limitations, gaps, fissures
lapses, blanks, silences
gestures that only approach
like a sign, like a symbol
but never reach the voice
donate some money for
the unfortunate who has
a hole in the heart, or
cancer, tumour or leukemia
my words, my actions
why should they hurt others
as principles, policies, laws
my path is filled with rubbish
I have to sweep them first
and then do my duty
before reaching my home.
Guilt
~~~~~
the rain falls across my days
the dog stinks, the cat stinks
the drain stinks, the rat stinks
in a rain soaked day, they
crawl up to you for warmth
my mother tries to keep things
tidy, grandmother struggles
fearing she might die any day
childhood memories of loving care
I ask her to make some bread
which I eat and give to the dog
the cat, the rat, the drain
splashing guilt all over my being
for being in the line of suffering
the suffering we give to one another
that blurs or snuffs out the bond
the allegiance towards the root
but rebounds in greater sympathy
the rain falls across the room
across the ribcage to the heart.
Corey King
Helios is Mad (Dog Days)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On those fiery days so dry
The birds hung their heads as they flew by
"Helios, you are mad!"
The people cry out to the charioteer
"Take the sun away, plunge us into darkness!"
But he did not listen
And so the men and women lay down and panted like dogs
While the children submerged themselves
In the muddy remnants of the reservoir
And when the countryside was plunged into the darkness of night--
Life!
Weltall (Cosmos)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Such a distance
Never to be touched by the
Fingers of Starship exhaust
Such a starry expanse
Giving weight to His quality of power
My lightyear is now,
My lightyear comes to its end,
My shuttle comes to a stop
In the endless floating
I see the mass
Captured and then catapulted
By many orbits
A cosmic game of pinball
I see the stars
Oh, the way they collapse!
Supernova, how the energy is atomic!
Cosmos!
We are just specks in your bowl
Cosmos!
We are all that is
Longing to Drink the Storm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It teased me with a drop on my head
I looked up at the sky and whispered
"Now are you ready?
You must be,
For the levels are dangerously low"
It shivered with excitement
But still, nothing
Felino Soriano
Bareness Evaluates Existence
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Exactness
interrogates
quasi aliveness,
what barely breathes
extends between
various levels of multiplied
existence.
Highness, or,
originally tended to escape its
genesis, to correlate with
royalty now clean,
rhymes loudly with bareness,
its identity
scraped off from flavor
of unchewable corpse
called organic reversal.
Various clues into problematic
virtues, dust overwhelms
the disposition of all
that ensues,
once tomorrow outweighs
an existence of critical,
analytical thought.
Epiphanies are Specialized Vernaculars
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Guarantees, guesses, going back
to their genesis,
lives insist on inhabiting
habitual dispositional nuances,
shades of diaphanous degrees,
where descriptive desires lay
hidden requests beneath
fully stretched and continuously
contagious with wandering
wishes.
Below the environment of wants,
needs, fundamental stereotypes
containing spatial nothingness between being and
ergonomically sensitive environments,
awareness arrives in methodical concepts,
ingeminating realistic consciousness
regarding awakened discernment,
familiarity toward a focus
of linear cohesiveness.
The Size of the Equation Was
Equivalent to Its Purpose
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Early, as in a ripening feature,
before light
spread directionally
between multifolding
aspects of specialized
caricatures,
sovereignty adorned with
classical lines of
Victorian
themed presence,
many formats containing promises,
premises,
imaginative renditions regarding
speculative species,
whose original genetic
terminology
called for futuristic idioms,
ideologies spoke toward the many listening
of the hardly
understanding.
The Trusting is Willing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The nocturnal lyric of wind's
perseverating howl,
whose kin of shadows
splayed forth in directional
camaraderie with delighting
competitive angles of
aimless groupings.
Fires residing atop winged species
sped through horizontal halos,
galloping, as though life in forms of
progressive tunnels had been
eerily prescribed for all onlookers, diagnosed as
dumbfounded, regarding illusive dishonesty
manifested through vernacular,
purposely hiding guidance of the willing
to correspond with on the basis of trusted diligence.
Within Reality, a Philosopher Documents Current Culture
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What has been transferred to our society is a synopsis consisting of
many complicated mazes for our children to distance themselves from."
Antonio Batan
Comprising within
a fathoming thought,
current culture which ensued after
swooping erasure,
swiping as in giant gallops from
majestic mythological gods,
… la mode styles journeying through minds
categorizing themselves,
juxtaposing length of importance with
the unimportant regarding existence,
although
lifestyles maintain in many forms,
featuring materials once invisible
to the imagination.
Science still dominant.
Metaphors arranged in alphabetic conjectures,
allowing
theoretic imaginations to conjure multiple
sections of lighted paths.
How is not the question,
but one of many dormant words
queued in quarantined vernacular,
waiting to be expressed
regarding current mode of languages,
expressing
an existence by default
has become shadowless
in a monotony of mendacious mirrors.
A Priori: Stilled Portrait
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prior to presenting my presence toward
ensuing existence
within employment,
existential displays of interaction with
Cultural antithetical mindsets
to my own,
sun showing fiery frustration,
a positional stance of gauging glared
glorification,
predetermined,
a priori of vernacular
hanging shaped species of
copasetic genesis.
Clouds splayed in directional
diversity,
determining chemical
visuals, those of enhancing
assumptions into informational truths,
protruding demeanor
pacing within facets
of factual reasons,
existing, heights within
visual reach,
outreaching tangible ability, the mind
became suspended in the faculty
of judgment,
the portrait of stilled
anger, high, higher than capable, imaginative
species within the mind of my
stilled curiosity,
sun remained glaring,
a metaphoric mover of specialized
simplicity.
The Unity of Curiosity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
for Duane Locke
Anatomies arranged in continuum
species,
spectrum of open arms
allowing
interpretations to define
elongated series of philosophical
terminology,
taken from tired
tongues, as in stolen monuments
of poetic minds, the forgotten and
foreign
who in spectacular indentation
within literary … la mode
monotony
are unaware of dichotomy, dissimilarities,
following the protocol toward
closing an improper gap of
intellectual
spontaneity.
Burgeoning Reality
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Commenting on what moves
and breathes independently
between an etcetera,
birth and death,
two contradictions,
juxtapositions
equate to a definitional atmosphere
regarding
speed and crawling
attributes of the human mind.
Common
are dual factors of interpretations
remaining new in dialectical
fashions within the mind.
Core spirals
involve critical thinking,
where assumptions
must first become ascertained,
stripped to their naked capability,
an informational
reality,
hyper-built dependent upon
ratio of caveat of judgment and
independent, immediate social
climate within the theory of self
reflection.
Gary Beck
Culture Clash
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scene: The outdoor dining area of an East Village, New York City restaurant.
Enter three men in their late 20's. They sit at a table.
Characters: Greg - White,
Reggie - Black
Edgardo - Hispanic
Jennifer - White
Nina - Hispanic
Greg: I don't mind losing. I just can't stand the way they knock me around.
Edgardo: Aw. Stop complaining, Greg. If you tried a little harder, we wouldn't
get beat so bad.
Reggie: That's easy for you to say. You were an athlete in college. Greg and I
are techno-wizards. We shouldn't even be playing basketball.
Greg: That's for sure. I don't know why we let you talk us into this.
Edgardo: You know why. It gets us out of the IT department twice a week, with
a nice dinner paid for by the company, and a week's paid
vacation at the end of the tournament.
Greg: Alright. We know that. But why basketball? You should have
picked a company sports league where at least we'd have a chance. We
go home with aches and bruises every time.
Edgardo: Mira. They don't have badminton or lawn croquet, my feeble friends.
All you gotta do is learn to get out of their way when they have the ball.
When you have the ball, just run past them and shoot as quick as you can.
Reggie: You better tell it to them. That asshole from legal kept hitting me with
his elbow whenever he was near me. Even when the play was over. I
think I have a cracked rib.
Edgardo: Don't be such a wuss, Reggie.
Greg: Is he a wuss because he doesn't like being hurt?
Edgardo: They hurt me too.
Reggie: It doesn't seem to bother you as much as it does us.
Edgardo: It hurts me. I just don't make as much of a fuss about it.
Greg: Why can't we have a video game league?
Reggie: Yeah. We could really kick ass.
Edgardo: That's exactly why nobody else wants it. They know they wouldn't
stand a chance.
Reggie: We don't have a chance in basketball. Is that fair?
Edgardo: We entered for a reason. You seem to be forgetting that. Listen. I'm a
reasonable guy. You know what's at stake. If you want to stop it's okay
with me. (Reggie and Greg reluctantly shake their heads no.)
Greg: We'll finish, Edgardo. We're just tired of all their name-calling. That
fat, hairy slob of a lawyer kept elbowing me and calling me a faggot.
I keep trying to trip him, but he always avoids it, then elbows me
hard.
Reggie: He did that to me too, except he called me a black faggot. He doesn't wear
a shirt and got his sweat all over me. We shouldn't have to take that shit.
Edgardo: Hey, guys. There are only two games left. Let's be cool and get through
them. If you don't want to do it next year, we won't.
Greg: I don't know if I can take two more games.
Edgardo: Don't be a girlie-man, Greg. We don't have to play against the Neanderthal
lawyer again. The last two games are with accounting and sales. The
accountants won't be too physical. You guys can handle them.
Greg: Maybe. But those salesmen are animals. They must smoke crack, or take
something that makes them so aggressive.
Edgardo: Enough for tonight. Let's relax and change the subject.
Greg: Hey. Look at those two girls coming this way.
Reggie: They're great looking chicks.
Edgardo: Don't get your hopes up. They're probably N.Y.U. dykes.
Greg: You're crazy. They're beautiful.
Edgardo: That doesn't mean anything these days. They could be lipstick lezzies.
Greg: What's that?
Edgardo: That's when both girls are feminine.
Reggie: What are N.Y.U. dykes?
Edgardo: The school has a reputation because so many lesbians go there lately.
Reggie: How do you know all that?
Edgardo: If you take your head out of your Blackberry once in a while you'd know
what was going on_. I'm going to talk to them. (Enter Jennifer and Nina.)
Hey, girls. What's happening? (They ignore him and start to walk by. He
leans over and stops them.) What's the matter? Are you too good to talk
to us?
Jennifer: We're not interested.
Edgardo: We just want to talk. Don't you like men?
Nina: As a matter of fact, we don't. Now fuck off.
Edgardo: No need to cop an attitude. I was just being friendly.
Nina: Save it for your asshole buddies.
Edgardo: You got some mouth on you. Didn't your momma ever teach you any
manners?
Nina: Not as far as pigs are concerned.
Edgardo: There's no need to be so insulting.
Jennifer: Then next time don't stop us, asshole.
Edgardo: You're beginning to piss me off.
Reggie: Take it easy, Edgardo. Let them go.
Nina: That's right, Edgardo. Listen to your sissy friend.
Reggie: Why are you insulting me? I didn't say anything to you. I just tried to
cool things.
Nina: You're with him, aren't you? Pigs always hang together.
Greg: (To Nina.) Don't you think you're over reacting? We're not looking for
trouble. We just wanted to talk to a couple of good looking girls.
Jennifer: Well we are a couple, but we don't like low-life male come-ons.
Reggie: How are we supposed to know? It's not as if you're wearing a sign that
says women only.
Jennifer: Then you should keep your mouth where you keep your brains, right
between your legs.
Edgardo: It's a waste of time trying to be polite to them. Keep moving, bitches.
Nina: Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?
Edgardo: A couple of dumb dykes. The same way they talked to us.
Jennifer: Forget it, Nina. It's not worth hassling with them. Let's go.
Nina: And just take their shit?
Edgardo: (To Nina) Listen to your wife.
Nina: (To Jennifer) I should kick his ass. (Edgardo laughs)
Reggie: (To Nina.) Your friend is right. Let's forget it.
Nina: The dominant black man isn't so tough now.
Greg: He's trying to apologize before things get out of hand.
Nina: (Pointing to Edgardo.) Let him apologize.
Edgardo: For what? Trying to talk to a girl who turned out to be a guy in drag?
Nina: One more insult and I'll punch you in the mouth.
Edgardo: Beat it, butch, before you get hurt.
Jennifer: (She tries to lead Nina away.) Come on, Nina. We don't need this.
Nina: The fuck we don't. (She throws a punch at Edgardo, who ducks,
then mocks her.)
Edgardo: Is that all you got, little boy? Try again.
Jennifer: (She grabs Nina's arm, who shrugs her off.) Don't, Nina. Let's go. (Nina
moves closer to Edgardo and swings again. This time he blocks the punch,
spins her around and boots her in the ass.)
Edgardo: Now take off. Next time I won't be such a gentlemen. (Jennifer tries
to pull her away, but Nina yanks free and lunges toward Edgardo. She
picks up a butter knife from the table and tries to stab him. He moves
aside and she hits Reggie, who yells loudly.)
Reggie: Ow! My arm! She stabbed me. Yow. That hurts.
Jennifer: Let's get out of here! (The girls run off. Reggie is moaning and holding
his arm.)
Edgardo: Should I chase them?
Greg: What for? To make a citizen's arrest for assault? Let's help Reggie.
(Edgardo and Greg inspect the injury.)
Edgardo: It didn't even break the skin. She was right to call you a sissy.
Reggie: Well it hurts. And I didn't even do anything. It's all your fault.
Edgardo: All I did was say hello How was I to know they'd be vicious, fighting
dykes?
Greg: Maybe if you didn't call them offensive names nothing would have
happened.
Edgardo: That nasty little bitch started it.
Reggie: And I got hurt_. I don't think I have to go to the emergency room, but
I'll probably miss the next game.
Edgardo: Don't use this as an excuse. You'll be alright by then.
Reggie: Maybe. But promise me no more confrontations when we go out. This
could have become a nightmare.
Greg: Yeah. What if she really cut Reggie?
Edgardo: I get it. Don't worry. I'll be cool.
Reggie: I hope so. We were lucky today. Another time things could spin out
of control and someone might get killed. It's happening all over
these days.
Greg: Yeah. People are getting shot for just looking at someone. And it's
not as if they're giving them the evil eye, or something. It's just
sick violence.
Edgardo: Alright. I get the message. That's enough. Let's call it a day.
(Exit.)

Maria Jacketti
Blank Document
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If we were all born blank documents,
the world would only have to write on us:
but who might be the editor?
While it is true that the world writes on me
every day; it posts new texts atop layers
of the older ones.
In the wonderland of Catholics where I grew up,
all babies were such souls: snow white
cellular conglomerations ,
bags of innocence
waiting to serve the king.
But my brain always had an Eastern back-door:
trouble is, it takes great pie chunks of life to learn to open it.
I am still opening it with the bow, the cobra,
the cow, the triangle.
We come into this life from others:
baby blankets, karmic webs
have solution,
if we are born onto the right game board, in time.
I give my physical prayer on a yoga mat.
"Dear God, I would be pleased it you make me
the hundredth monkey."

All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2006 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there.
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
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